Needle-sharp teeth pinch my earlobe.
“Morar-juk!” I snarl and sit upright, pulling my hands away from my face. The mothcat on my shoulder lets out a squeak and leaps to avoid my backhand. Tail flicking, it springs to my knee then launches itself onto my chest and scrambles around behind my neck. All so nimble and quick . . . but not quick enough.
I lash out with one hand, catch it by its long sinuous tail. Surprised, it squeaks again and squirms in my grip as I hold it at arms-length. It pins back its tufted ears, flashes two rows of tiny teeth.
“What?” I scowl at the little beast. “Do you also think it’s high time I pulled myself together and started acting like a king again? Perhaps you’d like a seat on my council. There’s a place available right between Lady Parh and Lord Rath, I believe. You’d fit right in.”
The mothcat chitters and gyrates in my grasp until I release my grip. It drops, lands on its feet and immediately clambers onto my knee. There it perches, angling its face up at me. I roll my eyes but, succumbing to its charm, deign to run my fingers under its chin and around behind one large ear. Then, leaning back in my seat, I gaze out at the view before me.
The bench on which I sit was placed here by my father as a gift to my mother soon after their marriage. This particular spot was her favorite. She would come to the royal gardens often to sit here and admire the crystal cliff and cascading falls. When I was small, she often brought me with her. We’d sit together and enjoy the droplets of rainbow-shot mist settling on our skin and the voice of the falls singing across the crystal-clear lake before us.
Afterwards—after my mother’s departure and my father’s remarriage—I did not visit this spot for quite some time. But I liked to envision bringing my own bride here. Someday. I pictured it all in vivid detail—a picnic luncheon the lusterling after our wedding night. A chance to show her one of the most beautiful sights my kingdom has to offer. She would still be uneasy, of course, in this strange world so unlike her own. But when she saw this place, everything would begin to change. I would kneel before her, grip her hands in mine, and promise her that all of this—all this splendor along with my own hand and heart—was hers for the taking.
Such a foolish dream.
A growl reverberates in my throat. Startled, the mothcat leaps from my knee and scampers away before it turns, back arched, and bares its teeth at me. “Forgive me, little friend,” I say. “I’m not myself this morning.”
When I stretch out my hand, the beast allows me to stroke it from the top of its head down its slinky back to the base of its tail. It kneads its little paws in the air, purring loudly, all fear forgotten. Shaking my head, I lift my gaze back to the waterfall. Delicate white streams tumble between ledges of age-shaped crystals. It’s a truly spectacular sight. One of the finest to be had in all my kingdom. It holds no attraction for me this day, however. Though I came seeking peace and clarity, my mind is in as much turmoil as ever.
I must make a decision. About Faraine.
Sul departed yesterday, escorting the princess’s companion, Lady Lyria, back to the Between Gate. With him he carries a message for King Larongar—my demand for the Miphates mages to be sent at once to serve at my bidding. I worded the message with care so that it contains no overt threat to Faraine’s life. But neither have I promised her ongoing safety.
Not that I expect my demands will do any good. I’ve witnessed firsthand Larongar’s disdain for his eldest daughter. He won’t be moved to protect her, not if it works against his interests.
I bow my head, bury my face in my hands. And there she is, in my head. Faraine. I hear the soft crooning of her voice in my ear. Her gentle moans as my palms swept across her trembling flesh. The little gasps of delight which punctuated each kiss I pressed to her skin. How sweet she’d tasted, fresh, delicious. And mine.
Then I’d opened my eyes. Seen my lovely, delicate bride for what she truly was. A traitor. False and two-faced.
The mothcat makes a sudden prrrrrlt and sits up on its haunches, front feet dangling. It angles its ears toward the gardens, then, with another trill, scampers off among the stones. Heart heavy, I watch until it vanishes from sight. I must go soon as well. Return to the palace. I positioned Hael at the main entrance to the gardens and commanded her to let no one through, but I can’t hide out here much longer. Mythanar needs its king.
I release a long, slow breath. Then, straightening my shoulders, I rise, turn from the waterfall, and retrace my steps along the path leading from the lake. The mothcats are strangely agitated today. They prattle in their singsong voices and sometimes emit harsh squawks and squeaks that send flurries of olk dancing into the air. Something must have disturbed them. Hopefully not one of my ministers come to pester me with opinions or press for action. I can’t take much more of their—
I round a bend in the path. And stop dead in my tracks.
An apparition stands before me.
It must be an apparition. For it cannot be true. It simply cannot be.
Because Faraine is down in a holding cell. Under guard. Hidden away where she cannot distract me, where she cannot cloud my wits and reason as I search for a solution to the problem she’s created.
Which means she cannot be standing in front of me, beneath that arch of pale stone. Suffused in the purple light refracted off a blooming amethyst cluster. Gazing up at me from those strange, bi-colored eyes of hers. Eyes which blink slowly, long lashes fanning her cheeks as they fall and rise again.
“You,” I breathe. My lips curl back from my teeth.
As though moving of its own accord, my body lunges a single step. I don’t know what I will do. Catch her by the hair, drag her back to her cell? Press her to my chest so that I may feel her heartbeat against mine? Both needs, both desires, rise in my soul with equal and opposing intensity.
Before I can take a second step, however, she collapses to her hands and knees in the dirt.
Once again, I stop short. When she fell, the wide neckline of her gown slipped down one shoulder, exposing the smooth curve of her skin. Her tumbling golden hair catches the lorst light, and I cannot help myself. All the blood drains from my face and rushes straight to my gut where it roils and burns.
With an effort, I master myself. “Rise, Princess,” I command. “Come, get to your feet.”
“I would. If I could.” A shudder races through her body. The muscles in her neck and shoulders tense as she rolls her head around and gazes up at me. Lines of intense pain frame her eyes. “Believe me, it gives me no pleasure, abasing myself before you.”
A streak of red stands out starkly against her pale flesh. It runs in a sluggish stream down her throat, dries across her bosom. I stare, not understanding what it is I see. Then in a terrible rush I remember: humans bleed red.
“Faraine!”
The next moment, I’m beside her, kneeling, gathering her in my arms. She resists, her hands pressed against my chest. Her arms shake in her efforts to push me away. But she’s weak. With a little moan, her eyes roll back, and her head lolls, affording me a clear view of the crimson gash just under her left ear. I touch trembling fingers against it, stare in horror at the blood seeping through. “Who did this to you?” I growl.
She cannot answer. When I pull her closer and rest her head against my shoulder, she merely moans. Her hair falls in soft waves across my breast, and when I look down, I can see only the curve of her cheek . . . and the much more expansive curve of her bared shoulder and bosom. It would be an alluring sight indeed were it not for that ugly red stain.
“Faraine?” My voice is rough in my own ears. “Faraine, can you hear me?”
“Yes.” She shivers. One hand reaches up, clutches the front of my tunic with desperate urgency. “You needn’t shout. I’m right here.”
That’s a lot of impertinence coming from someone whose throat has just been cut. Taking heart, I shift her in my arms so that I can tilt back her chin and get a closer view of the wound. Now that the first flush of panic has settled, I can see that it’s no more than a shallow graze. So why is she fainting in my arms?
She moans again and drops her head into the crook of my neck. “Let me go,” she breathes. One quivering hand rises, pushes against my chest, but without any force. “You’re hurting me.”
Hurting her? I force my arms to relax, but the moment I remove my support, she crumples to the ground in a boneless heap. Hastily, I catch her up again, my grip tight despite her agonized groan. Dark god spare me, what am I supposed to do? I can’t very well drop her in the path and leave her there.
A frustrated growl deep in my chest, I slip one arm under her knees, force her head back against my shoulder, and rise. She utters a little bleat, gripping the front of my shirt. “No! No, let me go!”
“Don’t struggle,” I say against her hair.
“I’ll struggle if I want to.” Her voice is fainter than before. “Please . . . please, don’t . . . send me back to . . .”
Her body goes suddenly limp.
My chest tightens as I gaze down at her face. Her mouth is slack, her lips parted, but her expression remains tense. A faint line puckers between her brows. Is she unconscious? I cannot tell. I must do something, must take her somewhere. Lifting my gaze, I search among the rock formations. “Is anyone there?” I shout. “Anyone?”
No answer. Only my own voice echoing among the blooming crystals.
With no other option, I march back along the path, muttering curses with every step. How in the Deeper Dark did Faraine manage to break out of her cell? And then to find her way here, of all places? It doesn’t make sense. As though dragged by an irresistible force, my gaze slides back down to the smooth white curve of her shoulder and breast. She’s tucked up under my chin now, so small, so delicate. How easily I might crush her in my arms. And yet everything about her is womanly, soft, and warm. The pleasure of simply holding her like this is more than I dare admit.
“Hael!” I wrench my gaze away and bellow across the garden to the south entrance. “Captain Hael! Gods damn it, where are you?”
At last, Hael appears in my line of sight, standing in the entrance arch. My captain of the guard looks uncertain, which is not normal for her. She’s usually so poised, but recent events have shaken her to the core. As they should. My own confidence in her is certainly not what it once was.
She takes one look at the bundle in my arms, and her stone-hard expression breaks into utter shock. “What is this?” she cries and leaps forward, reaching out as though to take my burden from me.
I pivot neatly to avoid her grasp, then continue swiftly around her into the palace. “The prisoner has escaped her cell,” I bark over my shoulder. “Someone needs to find out how. Now.”
Hael ducks down a side passage to sound a deep-bellied zinsbog horn. This brings other members of her guard scurrying to our location. Too soon, I’m surrounded by gawking faces. Which is not ideal. The last thing I need is for rumor to spread that I was seen cradling in my arms the very bride I’d nearly had publicly beheaded mere hours ago.
“Make way,” I growl, and they part before me. Hael issues crisp orders for some of them to hasten to the holding cell and speak to the guard on duty, for others to search the nearby passages for possible accomplices. Then she trails after me, blurting the occasional, “Where are you taking her?” or “What are you planning?”
I don’t have any answers. So I hold my tongue and continue forward. Ignoring the stares of any onlookers I pass, I storm through the palace halls. I don’t return to the holding cell. Instead, my feet carry me to the royal wing and the Queen’s Apartment. Hael, finally realizing where I’m headed, rushes ahead of me and opens the door.
“Get out of my way,” I snarl, and she leaps back. I bear Faraine into the bridal chamber, lay her down on the soft bed. Blood from her throat wound has soaked into the askew neckline of her gown and left a stain on my shirt. I touch the cut again and grimace, then shift my gaze back to her face. So stern, so lined with pain. Gently, I brush a strand of hair back from her forehead. She stirs slightly, turns her face a little toward me. My breath catches.
“Your Majesty?” Hael enters the room, bearing a pitcher, bowl, and cloths. She sets them down on the washstand close by. “Your Majesty, allow me to—”
I push her hand aside, take one of the cloths, and dip it in the water. Carefully, I dab at Faraine’s throat. “Send someone for Madame Ar,” I say without looking Hael’s way. She darts from the chamber. I hear her gruff voice demanding the palace healer be brought to the Queen’s Apartment at once. She returns a moment later and starts to say something, but I cut her off: “Out, Captain.”
Though I don’t look back, I feel the tension in the air as she freezes. Then, tentatively: “Your Majesty—”
I whip my head around, fix her with a level stare. “Did I not make myself clear?”
For a moment, the expression in her face is agonized enough to almost make me regret my words. Then her features harden. She salutes with her big, boulder-like right hand, steps from the room, and pulls the door shut behind her.
So. I am alone with Faraine. With my bride.
I focus on bathing the cut, on wiping away the red stain from her neck. After a moment’s pause, I continue to wipe her soft breast as well, careful not to let my fingers so much as brush her skin. The wound itself is blessedly small. Certainly not deep enough to require stitches. If Faraine is lucky, she’ll end up with only the faintest scar.
My gaze lingers longer than it should. I can’t seem to help myself. The truth is, I’d almost forgotten what she looked like. I’d known her for so short a time. Other than our memorable meeting and our ride together beneath the terrifyingly open sky, I only encountered her a handful of occasions in her father’s house. I’d spent more time with her sister, Ilsevel, with whom I’d danced each night.
But somehow, those moments with Faraine had left a greater impact. She spoke with both earnestness and humor. Always a little reserved, which lent her an intriguing air of mystery. And despite her reserve, she was warm. Her soul was so bright, it drew me like an olk to a moonfire lantern. I wasn’t foolish enough to think I loved her. There was something about her, however . . . something which led me to think . . . to wonder . . . to hope . . .
Not that it mattered. She’d made her position clear: If I cared about my people and my kingdom, it was her sister to whom I should be making my proposals. I had honored her insight, set my course, and never once looked back. I bade her farewell and thought I would never see her again. I’d made my peace with the way things were, the way things had to be.
Now I sit on the edge of our marriage bed, gazing down at the unconscious woman before me. Her fair brow, tense with pain. Her straight nose with its round little tip. Her full, soft lips, pressed together in a hard line. Giving into impulse, I reach out and let my finger trail down the curve of her cheek, round my knuckle along the line of her jaw. A mistake. Her skin is soft as silk. Just that mere touch is enough to strike fire in my soul.
Scarcely aware of what I do, I clench my fist and press it into the pillow beside her face. Slowly, I lean toward her, lower my face to hers until mere inches separate us. Her lips part. Do I imagine it, or does she tilt her chin up, as though in invitation? Her chest rises and falls beneath me even as her breath hitches in her slender throat.
What am I to do with this cavernous need? This ache in my core? I feel like a man parched to the brink of death who lays eyes at last on the cool, clear stream. Surely one touch should be enough to soothe this thirst. One little brush of my lips against hers. Is that too much to ask?
I could take it. Take the relief I desire. She could not stop me. The barest inclination of my head, and we would be joined once more. Only this time, that joining would be so much fuller, so much richer. Because this time, I would know it was Faraine I kissed.
Faraine.
Faraine.
Sudden commotion erupts in the outer chamber. “Get out of my way, get out of my way!” a familiar voice barks. “If the king must drag me from my good work, you might as well let me through.”
I push back from the bed, stand, retreat by several paces. Gods, what came over me? Maybe I truly am bewitched. Hastily, I run my hands through my hair, composing my face as I turn. The door opens. Madame Ar steps into the room, her healer’s bag in one hand. She shoots me a withering look. “Well, Vor? What’s so urgent that you’ll set a poor old woman scampering clear across the palace at your beck and call?”
I bite back a retort. Ar is certainly old, but one would never know it to look at her. Her stout trolde body bears the age of centuries with ease. She’s one of the few people in the palace who dares use my given name, with or without permission.
“I need you to take a look at her,” I say and sweep a hand to indicate the figure on the bed. “Something is wrong. I don’t know what.”
“Ah!” Ar’s eyes light up suddenly. Her face creases in an unexpectedly delighted smile. “I’d forgotten! Your new bride is a human! How fascinating.”
“She’s not my bride,” I growl.
The old healer ignores me, sets her bag aside, and begins a thorough inspection of the princess, muttering to herself as she goes. I stand close by, until finally Ar shoots me a withering stare. “You’re hovering,” she snaps, and makes a shooing motion with one hand. “It’s distracting. Be off with you! I’ll let you know when you’re welcome back in.”
I open my mouth to protest, to remind her that I am king. But it’s not as though Ar would pay any attention.
Instead, I step from the room and stand a moment in the outer chamber, oddly disoriented and uncertain. I close my eyes, lean my back against the door. Stepping out of Faraine’s presence is like leaving behind both light and air. My chest feels oddly tight and uncomfortable, and I struggle to draw a full breath.
“Your Majesty?”
I look up. Hael stands by the door. The sight of her drawn face is enough to make me pull myself upright. “Well?” I demand.
She salutes smartly, her face severe. “We found Lord Rath.”
“Rath?” I repeat, confused. Lord Rath is my minister of tradition, as slimy an eel as was ever dressed in ministerial robes. What he has to do with recent events is beyond me.
Hael shifts on her feet. “He was discovered unconscious not far from the holding cells, clad in a cloak and hood.” She pauses then holds up an object. “He had this on him.”
It’s a knife. A small dagger with a handle carved in the shape of a dragon’s head. The edge of the blade boasts a red stain.
I stare at that stain.
Then rage explodes inside my chest. “Where is he?” I demand, my voice a barely-subdued roar.
“In his chambers, Your Majesty. We thought it best if—”
I don’t wait to hear the rest. I push past Hael, out into the passage, and storm from the royal wing. I don’t pause until I reach the region of the palace where my ministers live in ostentatious apartments. Though we pass others, I see no faces, hear no voices. My mind has tunneled into a single purpose which leads me straight to Rath’s door.
The latch resists when I put my hand to it. With a single vicious turn, I break the lock and slam the door wide. Rath’s wife and members of his household are gathered in the front room. Lady Rath screams at the sight of me and faints into someone’s arms. I ignore her, I ignore all of them. I pass through their midst without pause and burst into Rath’s bed chamber. He lies on the bed, his skin white as polished marble. His eyes are open but unseeing. I’d think he was dead save for the ratcheting rise and fall of his chest.
Hael appears beside me. She reaches out as though to grab my arm but stops herself. Part of me wishes she would. Part of me suspects I need to be restrained before I do something irrevocably terrible. Red mist films my vision. I blink it back, draw a deep, steadying breath.
Then I march to the bed, stand over my minister. “Why did you do it?” I demand, my voice cold as a cavern. “Why did you try to kill her?”
He stares up at the ceiling. His mouth moves. Opens. Shuts. His eyelids flicker, but don’t quite blink.
“Answer me, Rath,” I snarl. “Answer me, or by the Deeper Dark, I swear I will—”
“Your Majesty! Please!”
The shout in my ear brings me back to myself. I turn to find Yok, Hael’s brother, gripping me by one arm. Hael is on my other side, her strong hands latched onto my shoulder. When I look down, I find I’m squeezing Rath’s throat. His eyes goggle and his tongue protrudes between his lips, thick and purple.
With a gasp, I let go. Yok and Hael drag me back. I sag in their holds. Gods above and below, what came over me? One moment, I was standing there, talking to the man, and the next . . . I don’t remember.
“Unhand me!” I cry. “At once, you fools!”
“You can’t murder him, Your Majesty,” Hael says, her hand still firmly locked on my shoulder. “Not even you are above the law.”
I turn sharply, catch her eye. “Let go of me, Captain. You’ve failed me one time too many.”
My words strike Hael like blows. She drops her hold on me and backs away. “We must question him, Your Majesty,” she says, pulling herself straight. “We must learn what he was attempting. Had he simply wanted to assassinate the princess, he would have sent a proxy.”
I nod. My breath is hard and heavy in my lungs. I can’t bring myself to look at the stricken lord again for fear another murderous rage will overtake me. I run my hands through my hair, push it back from my face. “You’re right. There’s something more afoot here. Have him carried to Madame Ar’s infirmary as soon as possible. Set a watch around him. Only your best men, Captain. Let no one near. I want him alive, do you understand me? If something happens to him, it will be on your head.”
Hael swallows hard, the muscles in her throat constricting. But she offers a crisp salute.
I turn from her, step toward the open door. There I pause and shoot a last look back at the man on the bed. He looks so pathetic, so small. My eyes narrow. “Tell Madame Ar, I want him tested as well.”
“Tested for what?” Yok asks quietly.
I pull my lips back, showing my teeth. “Raog poison.”
